Fathers and Other Strangers
by unilocular
Summary: When Tim and Tony are abducted during an investigation, the most unlikely players are needed to bring them home safe : a retired Gibbs and their fathers. Set between season 3 - 4, post-Hiatus. Rated T for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer : **All characters and anything recognizable remain property of CBS and their creators. I made absolutely no money from this work of fiction.

**Title : Fathers and Other Strangers**

**Warnings : Rated T for violence and language.  
**

**Author's Note :** _I thought it would be a while before I'd be back but this one just wouldn't leave me alone. The story takes place the summer after Hiatus (so during the break between season 3 and 4). It's likely going to end up focusing on the father-son bond between Tony and Gibbs as well as the one between Gibbs and Tim. No worries though, their actual dads will crop up over the course of the story. _

_Updates will be slow-going, so please bear with me. _

_We start-up mid-action. Enjoy. _

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Tuesday, August 22, 2006 - 3:58pm – Former Storage Site for Baker Chemicals - 150 O St., Southwest, Washington, DC –**

With his pulse pounding, Tim McGee presses his back deeper against the wooden crate. His Sig weighs heavy in his hands, the grip growing slippery as the sweat blossoms on his palms. He holds his breath, straining for any indication that his pursuers grow closer.

But the only thing he hears is his partner's labored panting.

Tony DiNozzo clutches his own weapon in a white knuckled grip. His eyes are dark, his expression more serious than Tim has ever seen. He inhales raggedly, making his shoulders hitch as he shifts towards the edge of the crate. Just as Tony peers from their hiding spot, a hail of gunfire sends him scrambling back.

Without bothering to look, Tim squeezes off a few shots for cover.

"Watch the ammo, Probster," Tony warns. "You're going to be out soon."

Tim reaches into his pocket for his back-up clip, but comes up empty. Somehow, he forgot that he's already half-way through it. His first clip was spent almost as soon as he and Tony arrived. An anonymous tip for their murder investigation brought them to the edge of Washington's civilization, deep into the crumbling industrial district. They had just set foot into the abandoned warehouse when a shoot-out sent them clambering for protection. Tim now realizes that what was supposed to be the straightforward arrest is turning out to be anything but.

Another barrage of bullets slams into the crate, sending splinters raining down on them.

"We can't stay here," Tim yelps, his voice strident.

"Tell me something that I don't know, McGee." Tony pulls out his cell phone, scowling at the device. "I still don't have a signal. Do you?"

When Tim checks his own, his frown deepens. "Me neither. Son of a – "

"Well, it'll be more fun with just us anyways." The cheeky grin Tony shoots Tim doesn't reassure him.

Instead, he whispers: "What do we do now?"

Tony inhales deliberately, then pushes the breath through his teeth. Shifting his weight, his eyes dart around the back of the warehouse. Tim follows his partner's gaze, trying to figure out what their plan will be. The room is dark, illuminated by a few fluorescent lights high overhead and the summer sunlight that sneaks through the filmy windows on the far wall. Huddled in the corner, a group of shipping crates partially obscures a door.

"There! Right there!" Tony gestures at it with his gun. "Once we reach the door, we get the hell out of here. How's that for a plan?"

With nearly fifty feet of unprotected ground and four armed pursuers, it sounds a lot like suicide. Despite the terror looming in his gut, Tim manages a brave smile.

"Easy enough," he lies.

Tony returns the grin. "Good, you go first. They won't be expecting us to run."

"But Tony – "

"No buts, McGee. That was an order. Run like hell and I'll cover you. When you get to those crates, you lay down cover-fire for me." His head jerks in the direction of the door. "If I don't make it, you get the hell out of here. You got that?"

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but his lips snap closed at the look in Tony's eyes. Instead, he drops his gaze to his knees and worries a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt.

Tony taps his shoulder. "McGee, was I clear?"

"Yeah, crystal."

Nodding, Tony slides back to the edge of the crate. Pulling himself into a crouch, he leans his body against it and holds his Sig to his chest. He hazards a glance out of their hiding spot and Tim is surprised when no one shoots at him. The silence is deafening.

_They must be planning something. _

"I can see two of them hiding behind a crate right where we came in. That means there's two more in here somewhere. Keep your eyes peeled, McGee." He wipes the sweat from his brow. "Are you ready?"

Pushing into a runner's stance, Tim swallows hard. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"On the count of three." Tony throws him an over-the-shoulder grin for luck. "One, two…"

Right before three, Tony darts out with his gun blazing. He rushes in the opposite direction of the door, drawing their pursuers' fire. Just as a third gunman pops up from behind a different container to shoot at Tony, Tim sprints towards the exit. With his sight set on their route to safety, the crack of gunshots spur him forward, making him move faster than he ever has in his life.

He dives behind a crate, his body slamming into the filthy concrete at the same time someone opens fire on him. Curling into himself to make a smaller target, Tim waits for the gunman to lose interest before he checks on his partner.

Halfway across the warehouse, Tony is pinned down behind a metal shipping container. Whenever he peeks out from the spot, the two gunmen by the entrance fire at him while the third drifts closer.

Holding his breath, Tim takes a shot at the one in the open. The pair by the entrance responds with a hail of bullets that sends him back to the floor. But at least, it gives Tony a chance to escape. While he flies towards the exit, Tim empties his clip to lay down cover fire. He mutters a curse, tossing the now useless weapon aside. Tony lands in the same spot that Tim did, rolling onto his knees to return fire.

A stray bullet nicks the edge of the crate, sending a sliver of wood into Tony's right arm. Collapsing behind the crate, he slams his back against it as he yells in pain. His hand wraps around the projectile and he wrenches it free, allowing blood to pour from the wound.

"Tony? Are you okay?" Tim gasps.

"G-damn it!" Tony jerks his chin at the blood that flows through his fingers. "Do I look okay, McGee?"

Not bothering with a reply, Tim yanks off his jacket. While he presses it against Tony's arm, Tim works to process the situation. With his partner injured and only one weapon, an already bad situation has turned dire. He peers out, watching the gunmen sweep closer. He reaches to take the gun from the ground, but Tony's hand smacks his away. Their eyes meet, Tim's fearful and Tony's determined.

"Let me cover you so you can get out of here," Tim implores.

"That isn't part of the plan, Probie, but nice try." Tony pushes the jacket to the ground as he picks up the gun. "You head out that door and don't look back, got it?"

After sliding over to the door, Tim stops to reconsider. "If I leave without you, Gibbs'll come out of retirement to kill me..."

"And if you wait for me, I think those guys might beat him to the punch." Tony stares intently into Tim's eyes for a beat, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Don't worry, Tim, I'll be right behind you."

Tim watches his partner shift his weight. "Are you sure?"

"Just run, McGee! Now!"

Rollin to his side, Tony lets out a grunt as he fires his remaining bullets into the warehouse. With the staccato of return fire assaulting his ears, Tim fumbles with the door. He slams his entire weight against it, feeling it give way with a pop and a screech to release him into a deserted alleyway. The air, thick with humidity and the stench of trash, threatens to suffocate him as his head whips around, searching for the right direction to run. To his left, past the dumpsters and bags of garbage, there is a city street that promises civilization and safety.

He only manages a few steps before a figure holding an assault rifle leaps out from behind one of the dumpsters. The moment he finds himself staring down the barrel, Tim freezes and raises his hands. It takes him several seconds to notice the gunman's young features, blonde hair and camos.

The jerk of the gunman's head points him back towards the warehouse. As soon as he turns around, something slams full-force into him, nearly knocking him over. Only a pair of supportive hands gripping his shirt keeps him upright.

"Come on, McGee, I told you not to wait for me," Tony says, his features tight with annoyance.

Without bothering to reply, Tim points over his shoulder to the gunman. Tony's mouth gapes, his lips struggling to form a coherent thought until it snaps closed. Clenching his teeth, he glares at the gunman as they double-back into the warehouse. Just inside the doorway, Tony's gun lies useless, the clip spent.

Tim and Tony are herded back into the center of the room, smack in the middle of the boxes. When the rifle dips to the floor, Tim sinks down onto his knees as the bile rises in his throat. He inhales deeply, fighting the urge to sneeze as the dust tickles his nose. Even though the air inside feels as though it's freezing, his skin starts to boil as the other gunmen emerge from their hiding places.

When they draw closer, Tim is shocked that they're all outfitted in matching camos. They move in a tight formation, the three sweeping the room as they slide towards their comrade.

_They almost look like they're Army…_

Still standing defiantly, Tony puffs his chest out at them. A short, square-jawed man with red hair steps forward to land a right hook to Tony's face that drops him to the ground. Tim hopes that figuring out the leader was worth the punch to the face.

The leader nods at the blonde holding the gun on them. "Good idea to stake out the alleyway, Hobgoblin. I figured they would've run out of ammo before they got there, but nice work all the same."

Hobgoblin grins broadly as he cocks an eyebrow. "Never leave an opportunity for escape. That's what you always tell us, right, Dozer?"

"Dozer?" Tony interjects, grinning wickedly at Tim. "I'd love to hear the story behind that call sign. Does he fall asleep on the job?"

"Nope, actually, he's a bulldozer," Hobgoblin starts, "ready to bury whatever – "

"That's not something we're here to discuss," Dozer warns, his tone dangerous as he waves over a dark skinned gunman. "Okay, Stanford, remind me which one we're here for."

As soon as he realizes their lead (and possibly their case) was actually a planned abduction, Tim's stomach roils. He coughs, struggling to swallow the acid on his tongue. While Stanford removes a sheet of paper from his pocket, Tim hazards a glance at his partner. With his good hand clamped over his bleeding arm, Tony's easy grin has morphed into anger as he narrows his eyes at the group.

Stanford points at Tony with his paper. "Anthony DiNozzo…Junior."

Tony sets his jaw, his features screwing in disgust. "What's my father done this time?"

"One of your dad's business associates is having a hard time reaching him. So our employer thought he would be more inclined to – " Dozer searches for the right word as he holsters his weapon " - return the call with you there."

Tony lets out a strangled laugh. "It must be important if he sent a bunch of Delta Force rejects to play chauffer. How much does he owe? And who's your employer?"

Obviously ignoring the question, Dozer steps forward to zip tie Tony's hands together. One hard yank pulls the agent to his feet, but he holds his ground, keeping a watchful eye on Tim. Squaring his shoulders, Tony surveys the group's uniforms and weapons in mock admiration.

"I have to admit that I'm surprised someone would throw a party like this for me. My father must've made quite the impression." Tony eyes the assault rifle hanging from Stanford's back. "You guys look pretty expensive though. I really hope you got paid up front. Commission isn't the best way to work when you're shaking someone down…especially someone like my father."

Three pairs of anxious eyes dart to Dozer, but he simply shrugs. "Don't worry guys. Payment's already been taken care of. Half up front and half on delivery. Now, it's time to get out of here."

Hobgoblin taps Tim in the back with his weapon. "What about this one?"

"Shoot 'im." Dozer shrugs. "He isn't worth anything to us."

When the barrel of the gun presses against his neck, Tim's muscles tense. He closes his eyes and pulls in a deep breath, hoping – praying – for a miracle. Bracing himself, he waits for an impact that doesn't come. All he hears over his pounding pulse is the scuffing of shoes and a struggle. Someone grunts and the pressure lifts from Tim's neck.

He cracks his eyelids to find three new sets of weapons pointed at him. Directly in their way, Tony stands with his bound hands held out. Hobgoblin scrambles to his feet and moves to rejoin his group with his gun raised.

"Get out of the way," Dozer orders. "Or we'll shoot you both."

"Are you crazy? You're trying to make some cash, right? If you shoot me, there goes your payday and you'll have to pay back the guy that hired you. But that doesn't matter anyway because your employer will never get the other half from my father." Tony shakes his head, gesturing over his shoulder at Tim. "But McGee's dad? Well, that's a whole different story."

Waving for his men to lower their weapons, Dozer stares intently at Tony. "Alright, Agent DiNozzo, I'm listening. Tell me why it's worth my time to keep your friend alive."

"McGee's dad is an admiral. Lots of power, well-connected, high-profile, not to mention loaded. Don't you think a guy like that would pay top dollar to get his kid back alive?" Tony lets the quartet consider his suggestion for a moment, then adds: "Come on, guys, my father is nothing more than a grifter. McGee's dad is Navy royalty. Which one of us do you think is the guaranteed payday?"

The three men glance to Dozer, obviously waiting for orders, as Tony sinks to the ground. Leaning forward, Tim gets as close as he can without raising suspicion.

"Tony, what the hell are you doing?" he hisses.

"I'm buying us time."

"By revealing my confidential personnel information?" Tim blinks, shaking his head at the realization. "You just told these guys to kidnap me..."

"Yeah, Probie, I know." Tony gestures at the way Dozer whispers animatedly with his men."I think it just saved your life. But I'll get us out of this, promise. I need to figure out their play."

Right before Tim knows how to respond, Dozer nods and his men start forward. Reaching Tim first, Hobgoblin zip-ties the agent's hands behind his back, then pulls him to his feet. A quick search through his pockets relieves Tim of his cell phone, tiny knife, wallet, badge and gun holster. Everything but the wallet and badge ends up on the floor in a pile next to Tony's possessions.

A gun in his back propels Tim through the warehouse. He and Hobgoblin weave their way around the crates, leading the group back to the entrance. Dozer gives a quiet whistle that stops them so he can slip outside for a quick perimeter check. He returns seconds later with a broad grin and a thumbs up.

Hobgoblin's hand on his shoulder sends Tim through the door, out into the soupy air. Squinting against the bright sun, he takes in the deserted street and decaying sidewalk. The only signs of life on this decrepit block are a long-paneled van, the NCIS Charger and a stray cat passing by Dozer's feet.

When they reach the van, Hobgoblin yanks the back door open and pushes Tim inside. He lands on his stomach with a grunt, rolling over just in time to see Tony come out of the warehouse. Kicking and flailing, Tony fights against the two men who grip his arms. When he wrenches himself free from Stanford, Tony drops his bad shoulder into the other man's gut.

"McGee! Run!" Tony yells.

Tim doesn't even make it to the edge of the van before s|Stanford retaliates with his first in Tony's face. He instantly slumps towards the ground, but the gunmen catch him and drag him to the back of the van. They drop him next to Tim and he lets out a moan, then he stops moving.

Tim slides closer to his partner as Hobgoblin and Stanford scramble into the back. The doors slam closed, plunging the interior into near darkness. Only seconds later, the van sputters to life and bounces its way down the road, hitting every pothole on the block.

Swallowing hard, Tim struggles to keep his panic in check. His eyes dart from Stanford's nondescript face to Hobgoblin's uneasy one to Tony's unconscious form.

_If we don't figure out what the hell is going on, Tony and I are as good as dead. _

___-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**7:32pm – Somewhere on a Beach – Ciudad Madero, Tamaulipas, Mexico –**

The days are longer here, always filled with the light of the sun and the crash of ocean waves. Even though the heat is oppressive, the air that rides off the water cools his sunburned skin. For all the time he has spent in retirement so far, Jethro Gibbs still doesn't bother with sunscreen.

Instead, he reaches down into the sand for the cure: a beer bottle. Throwing his head back, he downs the last drops of the warm liquid that remain inside.

_Mexican beer is nothing like bourbon, but it almost does the trick. _

He tosses the empty container down the beach and it joins the others with a definitive smash. His head swims as he turns his attention back to his task, the boat that he started building when he arrived here. He turns the sandpaper over in his hands before running it with the grain of the wood.

His days here are the same: waking late, working on his boat until the last light disappears beneath the palms, and nursing his heat stroke with beer after beer. But even though he has gone through the same motions, today feels different. For the first time since he arrived, he awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. His stomach is tight with knots that he hasn't felt since he left Washington.

_I told Mike those fish were bad. _

He pauses to blow the sawdust away, the plume billowing away like smoke. The sun sneaks deeper below the palm trees, stretching the hues of orange and pink across the pristine white sand. Even the water is painted with the brilliant colors of yet another picturesque, Mexican sunset.

But Gibbs doesn't bother to enjoy it.

He wipes his hands on his shorts, the action making his gut clench.

_Maybe I just need another beer. _

Chucking the sandpaper into his toolbox, he heads across the beach to the hut that he built with his friend, Mike Franks. He ducks into the dwelling, assaulted by the stench of stale alcohol and smoked fish. As he moves towards the refrigerator, he hears a quiet tune echoing from the opposite side of the room. It takes him a full minute to realize that it's the cell phone that he keeps beside his bed for emergencies. By the time that he reaches it, the caller has disconnected.

When he checks it, the display screen flashes forty-two missed calls with accompanying voicemails. He's just about to check them when the screen lights up with an incoming call from Abby Scuito. Figuring that she's calling to pick his brain about a case _again_, he grimaces as he flips it open.

"Hello?"

_"Gibbs, is that you? I've been trying to reach you all afternoon," _Abby yells, breathless.

He laughs. "I'm retired, Abs. Not used to answering the phone anymore." The hitch in her breath twists his gut. "What's goin' on?"

_"You haven't heard yet? Well, I don't know why you would have heard since you're on a beach somewhere in the Gulf. But I would have thought someone would have called you. Other than me, of course, because I called you a lot and you never answered. I just can't believe that no one let you know about – " _

"Abs! What the hell happened?"

She inhales loudly, pausing to let the thud of her music echo over the phone. _"It's Tony and McGee. They went to run down a lead on their case and they didn't come back. So Ziva went to check it out and she wouldn't even tell me what she found, but now they're missing. What should I – " _

"Don't worry, Abs, I'm on my way," he interrupts, grabbing a dufflebag from the corner.

There's a quiet sniff, followed by a fart from her stuffed hippo. _"But Gibbs, what if they don't come home? I don't know what I'll do without them. I've already lost you and Kate." _

He pulls a bunch of clothes from his dresser, shoving them into the bag. "Just wait until I get there. Who's the investigating agent?"

_"Steve Barrows. Ziva's working with his team right now to clear the scene, but I thought I should let you know. Especially since you know how – " _

"Just breathe, Abs. I'm packing right now. I'll call you the second I land," he promises

He flips his phone closed, then does a quick search for his boots before locating them underneath his bed. After a quick dusting, he slips them into his bag and zips it shut. He grabs his wallet and passport out of the dresser on his way to the door. He's on the porch when he runs into Mike Franks. Smoke curls out of the cigarette that rests on his lips.

"Whoa-ho, Probie, where's the fire?" Mike asks, flicking an ash away.

"Washington," Gibbs replies, stalking past him.

Mike snorts. "Already heading back? I told you that you wouldn't last in retirement."

"Half of my team is missing."

His mouth gapes, sending the cigarette to the ground. "And you think you'll get a flight outta here right now?"

"I don't trust anybody else to run the investigation." He sighs quietly. "Plus I promised Abby that I'd bring those boys home."

Reaching into his pocket, Mike lifts another cigarette to his lips. The lighter blazes in the waning sunlight, then he takes a deep drag. Just as Gibbs turns to head up the beach, Mike gestures for the cell phone.

"Let me call in a few favors, Probie. I bet I can get you out of here within the hour.**_"_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer : **The only thing I own are the typos.

**Warnings : Rated T for violence and language.  
**

**Author's Note : **_Thank you to everyone who's read, favorited, followed and reviewed so far. I apologize for the lengthy delay in the newest chapter. Life has been pretty hectic: started writing a book, took a vacation and worked like crazy. But that's not really an excuse, is it?  
_

_I did research the military rankings, but I'm not absolutely certain that they are right based on ages/timelines for the characters. If they are inaccurate, please don't hesitate to drop me a PM or review so I can correct the story. _

_Enjoy._

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Unknown Time, Unknown Place –**

The air underneath the hood is hot and oppressive, almost strangling. Tim lifts his chin again, trying to encourage some fresh air through the space he creates…but nothing comes. With an exasperate sigh, he slumps against the wall. He thinks it might be covered with wood paneling, but he isn't sure what he feels anymore. His hands went numb hours ago. He strains against the zip-tie, flinching at the pain that shoots through his fingers like electricity.

He doesn't know how long he's been here. Or even where here is, for that matter.

He closes his eyes, desperate to remember anything that could help.

After they left the warehouse, the van took a circuitous route through the city. He tried to count the time between turns like Tony taught him, but he probably missed a few. Panic and adrenaline tend to destroy his concentration. The best he can figure is that they're somewhere near the city, just off 295.

_For all I know we could be in Baltimore…_

Tim grimaces at himself in the dark. There isn't time for a pity party. He needs to learn something tangible, something that will be able to help him and Tony.

After struggling to his feet, he takes a moment to orient himself. He stands in the center of the room that Hobgoblin locked them in earlier. Tony lies somewhere to the left, an unexpected hurdle in the darkness. Tim rolls his shoulder, feeling the bruise from when he tripped over his partner.

Based on the disconcerting silence then and now, Tony must still be unconscious.

The chill that traipses down his spine spurs Tim to take another tour of their prison.

He can't – won't - think about why Tony hasn't woken up yet.

His useless fingers run over the walls, tracing the divets in the uneven wood. Eventually, he finds the door and tests the knob again. Locked...just like last time. He didn't expect anything different. By the time he finds his way back to his original position, terror burns white-hot in his chest again.

_This isn't helping…_

To the left, he hears an low exhalation, something between a cough and a moan. Tim's heart rises in his throat, fearing what could be happening to Tony.

_Is he getting sick? Or having a seizure? Or - _

Tony coughs again, before slurring: "McGee? Is that you?"

"Tony! You're awake, thank G-d!" Tim yelps.

"Whoa, whoa, calm down, Probie. I'm fine. Just breathe," Tony replies, his voice weaker than his words.

Tim hasn't noticed that his breathing has edged onto hyperventilations. He pulls a deep inhale and holds it, searching for calm, as Tony makes a scritching noise like he's standing up. The floor creaks under his weight as he draws closer. Seconds later, the hood disappears from Tim's head and he blinks owlishly to clear the spots from his vision.

Their prison is smaller than it seemed in the dark. The walls are lined with dingy wood-paneling and the only window is boarded up, allowing the dying bits of sunlight to sneak through the cracks. A bare bulb hangs overhead, casting the room with a constraining, sulfuric glow. But by far the worst part is the air, heavy with the reek of mold and stale cigarettes.

Tim's eyes finally focus on Tony's face. He looks worse than he did at the warehouse. His left cheek has taken a deep purple tinge and his eyes are glassy, almost unfocused. The right shoulder of his suit is stained dark red, but at least the bleeding has stopped. Tim is thankful for small mercies.

"Earth to Probie." Tony waves the hood to grab Tim's attention. "Do you feel better now?"

Tim nods half-heartedly. "A little…How are you?"

"I have a killer headache, but I'll be fine." Ignoring Tim's concerned gaze, Tony moves around the room. "Sit-rep, McGee."

Tim bites his lip. "We headed north on a highway. Based on the path we took, I think it was 295, but I'm not sure. We drove somewhere between forty minutes to an hour or so. But I have no idea where we are."

Closing his eyes, Tony makes a few mental calculations. "That puts us anywhere between Fort Meade and Baltimore. Did you see anything when you got here?"

"The hood didn't help, but we're about twenty steps from the van. The ground outside is concrete or maybe, asphalt. We moved through a couple rooms before we got here. I think we're in a house."

Tony stares at him for a long beat, clearly expecting more. When it doesn't come, his stance straightens and he says: "Good work, McGee."

Tim nods, but he knows that his superior doesn't mean the praise. It's one of the hallmarks of Tony's tenure as team leader. He tends to dole out compliments when they reach their darkest hours to boost morale. What works in the middle of the night during a case just doesn't feel the same here…

"Tony, what do we do?"

With a humorless chuckle, Tony tosses the hood aside. Contorting his body at an awkward angle, he uses his bound hands to probe the interior of his jacket. After a few tries, he grins wickedly at Tim.

"Aha. I found it!"

Tim cocks his head. "Found what?"

"The safety pin that my tailor always leaves behind for suit emergencies," Tony explains, holding up the tiny piece of metal.

"Of course, you have a tailor," Tim mutters, rolling his eyes.

"Did you really think I look this good by accident?" Tony displays his wrecked suit and matted hair.

Tim bites back a laugh. "It looks like you had an accident."

"Maybe I'm not at my best right now, but Juan Pablo will get me fixed up later." Tony slides behind Tim to work on the zip-tie. "Where do you shop, McGee? Are you still picking through the clearance rack at Walmart?"

"It was one time, Tony, one time - " Tim makes a face "- and I really liked that tie!"

"Yeah, I bet you would. The fact that it only cost you $3.98 makes Gibbs look like a big spender on his wardrobe. Hopefully, you'll follow his lead someday and graduate to the sales aisle at Sears."

"For your information, Tony, clothing is the one of the worst things you could buy. The return on your investment is absolutely nil. Speaking of investments – "

"Hold that thought, Probster."

Another jiggle and the zip-tie loosens enough for Tim to free his hands. He sighs with relief, taking a moment to rub his aching wrists. The pins and needles work their way into his fingers, the sensation stinging as it returns. Tony passes him the safety pin and he returns the favor, wiggling the point into the fastener until it gives way.

"I don't need your financial advice, Probie. I already own stock in Zegna."

Tim's eyebrow rises. "What's that? A biotech firm?"

Tony chuckles, then points to his suit. "My stock just took a hit, but I'll buy more shares soon."

After rolling his eyes, Tim takes a sobering survey of the room. "Tony, how do we get out of here?"

Pressing his lips together, Tony moves his way through the room. He checks the door, muttering a curse at the lock, before he heads to the window. He peers through the boards, frowning at the sight outside.

"It looks like we might be in a neighborhood, but the nearest house is dark."

When he raises his arms to test the boards, Tony lets out a quiet moan and clutches his right shoulder. Tim rushes over, easing to his side to complete the task for him. The wood doesn't have any give when he leans against it. He goes to pound on it, but Tony stops him.

"Don't make too much noise or they'll know something's up.

Tim nods. "The boards are probably screwed in anyway. We'll never get them loose from in here."

"So we can't get out that way and they're on the other side of that door." The gravity of the situation takes a moment to set in for Tony. "Son of a – "

"Please tell me you have a plan…"

"Yea, we do the only thing we can, fight." Tony fiddles with his belt, revealing the tiny knife. He tests it with his left hand, then settles for his right. "When you get an opening, you run."

Tim's eyes go wide. "But Tony, I – "

"Come on, McGee, no buts. We talked about this earlier. You get out of here, that's an order." Tony turns to face him, his features hard and unrelenting. "You know that you've had some problems following them since Gibbs left."

Tim's mouth gapes. "I've always listened, Tony!"

Tony shakes his head. "Not on the Dukakis case."

"You tried to make me leave a scene where there was an active shooter."

"For good reason, there wasn't enough cover for both of us and you didn't have a clear shot. I told you to go so you didn't get yourself killed, but you stayed anyway."

Tim pushes a breath through his teeth. "You needed the back-up."

"Ziva was there, somewhere. I told you both to leave on the Hanson case and you two ignored me," Tony continues, pointing his finger at Tim for effect.

"Did you really think we'd leave you to diffuse a bomb alone? Really, Tony? If we hadn't stayed, you'd be dead. Ziva was the only one of us who knew what to do."

Tony's cheeks pale. "I just need you to listen this time, Tim."

Squaring his shoulders, Tim draws himself to his full height. "Why? Why do you want me to run? Do you think I'm a coward? We should face these guys together. "

Tony gives a long pause. "Because I have no idea what these guys will do to us," Tony admits quietly, raw fear creeping onto his face. "I swore an oath to protect my team, to protect you." When Tim studies a spot on the floor, Tony adds something he doesn't usually: "Please."

Tim lets out a defeated sigh. "I'll go when I get a chance."

"Good." Tony heads to the door and presses his ear against it. "It sounds like those guys are sleeping out there. We might as well do the same, Probie. I'll take first watch. Get some rest while you can."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Wednesday, August 23, 2006 - 5:09am – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters - Washington, DC –**

Gibbs stands at the lab bench, enthralled by the images on the computer monitor. His hand grips the mouse, clicking through the crime scene photos from Tim and Tony's abduction. Even though he has gone through them already, he hopes that one more pass might yield something new…break the case wide open and bring his agents home.

He stops at an image of a shipping crate, an impressive number of shell casings strewn around it.

_Why did they use so many bullets? _

With the shake of his head, he scrolls through a few more pictures. He pauses to study one of an empty clip from a Sig. The following photo shows the weapon, abandoned and useless. Directly next to it, there is a spatter of blood on the floor, partially obscured by a suit jacket.

Someone was injured, probably one of the agents. One of his agents.

Clenching his jaw, he ignores the guilt that burns his throat. He couldn't have known what would happen when he left. That his agents would be abducted during a routine investigation. He clicks through the rest of the photos, barely allowing enough time to take in the details until he hits the end. There was nothing new to glean. He scrubs his hand over his face and reaches for the cup of NCIS-issue coffee Abby brought him. One sip makes his gut churn worse than it already does.

_Now I remember why I haven't bothered with this shit since I left Washington. _

He leans against the bench, dragging his tired eyes over Abby's toy collection. Not much has changed since his retirement party. Her plastic skulls and gothic figurines still poke out from their same locations. But her stuffed hippo is in the midst of an identity crisis with a spiked collar that's more fitting for a dog…or one of Abby's boyfriends. He picks up the plush, letting his fingers run over the gummy fur.

"What did she do to you?" he asks.

The hippo emits a fart, sending a hollow smile to his lips.

"So you finally learned to have fun? It's about darn time," a male voice says.

With two coffee cups in his hands and deep bags under his eyes, the leader of the other MCRT heads over. As Steve Barrows draws closed, the overhead light glistens off his bald head. He passes Gibbs one of the drinks. The presence of a freshly-brewed, off-site coffee is a welcome one.

Gibbs nods his greeting. "Barrows."

He shoots Gibbs a tight grin. "Great to see you too, Gibbs. Nice tan, by the way. Looks like retirement has been treating you well." He stops dead, his brown eyes widening. "What's on your face?"

"Got tired of shaving," he explains, smoothing his mustache.

"I bet you're using it to dust sand off your beer bottle." The simple shrug of Gibbs' shoulders makes Barrows laugh. "How are the shores of Mexico? All palm trees and cervezas?"

"Fine." An awkward silence stretches until Gibbs adds: "How's your daughter?"

Barrows flinches. "You know how much of a handful Izzy's been since Cindy passed away. I do my best, but it never seems like enough. I miss out on a lot. It comes with the job."

Gibbs nods slowly, tilting his head at the screen. "Speaking of…"

"Your old team? Until today, everything was going great. DiNozzo's come close to hitting your closure numbers with his own way. You know how he tends to be a bit more – " he searches for the right word " – dramatic. McGee grew into his own in his new position. And Ziva? Well, she's pretty difficult to figure out. But DiNozzo never speaks ill of her. You'd be proud of what they've accomplished, Gibbs."

"I always was," he replies, pulling a sip of coffee.

"I'm sure they knew," Barrows says, his eyebrows rising. "Have you seen Abby?"

"She's sleeping while – " Gibbs gestures to a computer that runs a scan " – this does whatever it's doing. What about your team? Any new leads?"

"Davenport and Ziva are getting a few hours while they can. I have Suzuki running down the anonymous tip that put McGee and DiNozzo in that warehouse. I just got myself up to speed on their case."

"Mind giving me the short version?"

Leaning over, Barrows gives a few clicks to computer to bring up a different set of photos and an image of a dark-haired man in service blues. Gibbs takes a second to glance through them. The scene appears to be gruesome with the man lying on the floor, the white carpet dyed red from a head wound. His right hand's wrapped around the hilt of a small gun.

"Meet Chief Special Warfare Operator, Zachery Mitchell, 36. Pay-rank, E-7. Former member of SEAL Team One," Barrows explains, flicking through a file on the lab bench. "Born and raised in Bethesda. He spent most of his naval career floating between various bases in California. He was stationed in Coronado until he was honorably discharged two months ago. He moved home to take care of his aging father, who died last week."

"It looks like he didn't take it well." Gibbs sighs as he surveys the images.

Barrows' lips pull into a sad smile. "DiNozzo's team didn't think so either. Their preliminary reports show they suspected suicide. But based on the deceased's combat history, DiNozzo decided to treat it as suspicious until Dr. Mallard finished his autopsy."

"What's in the history?"

"I have no idea. All I know is that his missions were based out of Afghanistan, but everything is classified. I'm still waiting for Shepard to work her magic so she can read me in on those missions."

"Don't hold your breath."

"I've learned not to, but I think it's safe to assume he was involved with something big. So until we know otherwise, we should consider his death related to DiNozzo and McGee's abduction." Barrows switches the photos back to the ones from the warehouse. "The switchboard received a call this afternoon at 2:07 from an unidentified male. The caller stated that the truth to Mitchell's death could be found in a warehouse in Southwest. DiNozzo never spoke to the caller, but he still decided to run down the lead."

Gibbs gestures to the screen. "And then..."

When Barrows brings up a photo of the shell casings, Gibbs flinches at the sight. "This is exactly what Ziva found when she got there. We put out a BOLO for them, but nothing's come back yet. Casings are from six distinct weapons. Abby's preliminary findings indicate there were three separate M4's, one M9, and two Sig Sauer P228's."

They stare at the image for several long moments until Barrows comments: "With that kind of firefight, I'm surprised that McGee and DiNozzo aren't dead."

Pulling a sip of his coffee, Gibbs studies the picture. With the number of bullets used, Tim and Tony should be dead. But something doesn't feel right. He pushes Barrows' hand out of the way so he can scroll through the images again. It's the first time he notices the location of the casings in relation to the bullet holes. The Sig Sauer bullets are buried in shipping crates, directly in front of the M4 and M9 casings…directly in front of the assailants' hiding spots.

His agents shot to kill, but the gunmen –

"Where are the M4 and M9 bullets?" Gibbs asks suddenly.

Barrows purses his lips. "They were all over the place. It's kind of funny with how those weapons are amazingly accurate, but the shots were wild. We assumed the assailants were untrained."

"Or they were trying to avoid DiNozzo and McGee."

There's a long pause as Barrows considers the suggestion. "So you think the abduction was planned and not a crime of opportunity?"

"It seems that way."

He makes a note in his file, then glances up with grave eyes. "This is personal."

Shrugging, Gibbs backs away from the computer. He needs a few moments to think, to process the situation. What should be a random crime turned out to be a vendetta against one of his agents. He scrubs his hand over his face, debating about which one could be the target.

Just as he steps into the hallway, an air-raid siren shrieks.

He nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Gibbs! Get in here!" Barrows yells.

With his hands clamped over his ears, Gibbs ducks back into the lab. The lights flash overhead like a strobe. His path back to the bench is nothing more than snippets that turn his stomach.

A black-clad figure bursts out of the office, making a jerky approach. When it materializes by his arm, he jumps again. The familiar grip on his arm brings him a surprising comfort in his near panic. Suddenly, the noise cuts out and the lab plunges into darkness. Gibbs wonders whether he's gone deaf and blind.

But when the overhead light crackles back on, he blinks to clear the pounding that starts in his head.

Next to him, Abby Scuito clutches his arm. She glances up, a sad smile barely reaching her puffy eyes. Her pigtails are wild, the fly-aways dancing in the fluorescent light. Gibbs tries his best to smooth them, but it only makes her hair worse. He kisses her head instead.

"Did you find anything about Tony and McGee yet?" She plays with the hem of her black microdress.

Gibbs shakes his head. "Not yet, but we will. What's with the new alarm, Abs?"

"I rewired the lab," she explains, "so I wouldn't miss anything."

"The first time I heard it, I damn near had a heart attack," Barrows interjects, rubbing his likely ringing ears. "What's the search results?"

Abby lets out a broken sigh, then scans her findings. "Do you remember that partial print that I found on the M9 casing, Steve? Well, I ran it through every database that I could think of." She grows quiet, her eyes squinting at the screen. "This can't be right."

"What is it?" Gibbs asks, peering over her shoulder.

She smashes a few buttons to bring up an image of a red-haired man. Wearing a navy working uniform, the young man sat with his defiant gaze directed at the camera.

"Special Warfare Operator, Second Class Matthew Cunningham, 31," she recites, gaze still glued to the computer monitor.

Heading for the door, Barrows waves for Gibbs to follow. "I'll have my team get out a BOLO and we'll bring DiNozzo and McGee home before the sun's up."

But Gibbs doesn't move, certain that Abby has more. She types frantically, scrolling through several databases and loading search after search. His eyes don't even have an opportunity to focus on her information before she moves onto another screen. Gibbs suddenly regrets forgetting his reading glasses in Mexico.

"Steve! Wait!" Abby calls.

He stops dead. "What?"

"Something's hinky here." She waits for Barrows returns to her side. "Cunningham's combat records are listed as classified, but he's from the same platoon as Zachery Mitchell. Wait, this is hinkier than I thought. It's like straight out of a movie…"

When she lets the silence stretch, Gibbs taps her shoulder. "Fill us in, Abs."

"There's no reason for his fingerprints to be here. Cunningham was killed in 2005 during his last tour."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer :** The only things I own are the OCs and the typos. No money was made from this. It's purely for my own entertainment.

**Warnings : Rated T for violence and language.  
**

**Author's Note : **_Thank you to everyone who's read, favorited, and followed so far. Many, many thanks for those who dropped PMs and left reviews. I apologize for not sending you a personalized thank you note. Please know that I appreciated each and every one of your kind words.  
_

_If you read my other stories, you might recognize some of the OCs. I like to use the same people over again, but this story isn't connected to any of the others. _

___Slightly shorter chapter today, but it feels right as a standalone. _

_Please enjoy. _

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**3:08am – The Crow's Nest – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

Already half-way through his second cup of coffee, Gibbs stands in front of the plasma screen. His back faces the team that works behind him, but he can hear the incessant click of their keyboards. For the past hour, he hasn't moved – scarcely breathed – as he waits for any lead on Tim and Tony's abduction.

Barrows vanished a while ago, hustling off to autopsy to pressure Donald Mallard for speedier results on Zachery Mitchell's post-mortem. Gibbs opted to hang back, lurk around the crow's nest (Barrows' version of the bullpen) in hopes the break would give him to time to think.

Exhaling raggedly, he rubs the back of his neck.

_Maybe I should've gone to visit Ducky._

Gibbs shakes his head, returning himself to the moment. If Ducky's stories could solve crimes, he would have listened to them while he still worked here…and probably managed to increase his closure rate.

Instead, he needs to focus on finding his agents.

His eyes flick back to the screen. He has stared at the images from the different investigations for so long that they're starting to blur together. With nothing else to go on, he glances through them again. The photo of the dead veteran melts into the abduction scene alongside Tim and Tony's personnel pictures. In the bottom corner, Matthew Cunningham's military ID photo glares back.

All of the seemingly unrelated cases are connected in a way that eludes Gibbs at the moment.

He takes a swig of his coffee, swishing the acidic liquid through his teeth.

The phone call is the piece that ties them all together.

_But who put DiNozzo and McGee in that warehouse? _

With a heavy sigh, Gibbs turns away from the screen. Every detail of the images is emblazoned on his brain, but he just can't figure out what the connections between Mitchell and his agents could be. It has to be more than a phone call.

_Could this be personal?_

His attention focuses on the agents working tediously around the crow's nest.

Hunched over his desk, Kenji Suzuki stares intently at his computer monitor, likely still sifting through Tim and Tony's financials. Across from him, Eloise Davenport types wildly on her keyboard. The last Gibbs checked in, she was trying to gather the classified service records for Cunningham's platoon.

Seated at Barrows' desk, Ziva David holds his phone against her ear with her shoulder as she takes notes. Based on her hushed tones in Hebrew, Gibbs figures she reached out to her covert contacts. The look on her face when their eyes meet tells him that it hasn't been fruitful…yet. She presses the receiver down, then quickly dials another number.

Gibbs' gut twists.

"Somebody tell me something," he says.

Eloise's lips pull into a tight line. "I don't have much. Mitchell's service records are classified, but most of Seal Team One's missions are. I did find something interesting about one from 2005 known as Operation Sunfire." Her voice trails off as she scans the screen.

"What happened?"

"I'm scant on details, but Cunningham and his platoon were killed during that mission."

Gibbs' eyebrows rise. "You got their names?"

"Not yet. I'm not accustomed to infiltrating this level of encryption. Steve usually prefers that we use more – ' Eloise searches for the right word ' – permissible avenues of information gathering. But I know Director Shepard is unreachable tonight so we'll have to go this route for now."

Nodding slowly, Gibbs lets her believe the lie as she turns back to her work. His sight then sets on Kenji.

"I don't have anything, sir. I went through Agent McGee and Agent DiNozzo's bank statements and credit card bills. Nothing is really out of the ordinary, except…" Kenji pauses to loosen his tie.

"Whaddya got, Suzuki?" Gibbs asks.

"Agent DiNozzo spends more on clothing every month than I make." When Gibbs just glares at him, Kenji laughs nervously. "But that's not really important, is it? I also checked into the anonymous phone call. It came from a burner phone that was activated this morning at a gas station in Silver Spring. The call came in at 2:07pm and ended at 2:12pm. The phone was switched off at 2:24pm. It hasn't been turned back on since."

Gibbs clenches his teeth. "Ziver?"

Grim-faced, Ziva places the phone on the cradle. "None of my contacts could tell me anything about who might have abducted Tony and McGee. They have never heard of Matthew Cunningham."

"You know anything about this Operation Sunfire?"

"It was a US military operation to target key players in the Taliban at the start of the war." Her gaze darkens. "Shall I reach out again?"

Gibbs glances at Eloise. "You got anything yet, Davenport?"

Her wide eyes appear over the monitor. "Agent Gibbs, I need more than five minutes."

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he nods at Ziva. "Why don't you make the calls from the car? You and Suzuki go check out the lead on the burner phone."

Without hesitation, Ziva gathers her gear from underneath the desk. But Kenji remains still, fidgeting with his mouse until Barrows appears at the edge of his cubicle.

"Get a move on, Kenj. Gibbs gave you an order."

Kenji bolts out of his chair and snatches his backpack off the floor. "I'm on it, Steve."

As Kenji and Ziva head towards the elevator, Gibbs listens to them discuss who will be driving to the Silver Spring gas station that sold the cell phone. While they wait for the elevator, Ziva snatches the car keys out of Kenji's hand. His helpless glance back towards the other agents earns a shrug from Gibbs.

Barrows slides next to Gibbs. "I just got the preliminary report from Ducky on the Mitchell death. Suicide, just like DiNozzo thought."

Gibbs makes a face. "So how is the death connected to the abduction?"

Pressing his lips together, Barrows studies the plasma screen. "The phone call, but that's all we know for now. Hopefully, Suzuki and David will turn something up at the gas station."

The silence settles over them, broken only by Eloise's sporadic typing. As he stares at the images of his missing agents, Gibbs feels his chest tighten.

_What if we don't find them? _

"I think I need some air," Gibbs says quietly.

Barrows smiles sympathetically. "We aren't going anywhere."

After a quick nod, Gibbs rushes out of the crow's nest. Instead of heading towards the elevator, he follows the well-worn carpet that leads to the bullpen. With the overhead lights on their nighttime setting, the space is uncharacteristically quiet. The desks are empty, the desk lamps dark. He closes his eyes and for a brief second he can see his team, slogging through the night as they run down leads.

When he blinks, the space is still quiet…almost tomb-like. He ignores the shiver that glides down his spine as he moves into the familiar space.

He is a stranger in his own home.

Ziva's desk is exactly as he remembers, only a tiny Israeli flag and glass vase giving any clue to the inhabitant of their spartan quarters. In Tim's cubicle, the only changes are a few photos from exotic locales tacked on the wall behind his chair. Obscure corners of the world that he'd probably never have the time nor the money to visit.

When he moves to Tony's desk, Gibbs frowns at the empty surface. It isn't until he notices his old space that realizes what happened. After he retired, Tony must have relocated to Gibbs' former desk. The surface is piled high with case files, their contents spilling onto the floor. Little wads of paper, empty straws and candy wrappers are all over the place. Nestled deep within the mess is a tiny stapler with a cartooned mouse wearing a cape. In the corner by the floor, there is a white board with a list of the team's open and closed cases. The 'win percentage' makes Gibbs' eyebrows rise.

It's one thing that he never understood about Tony. How could someone so disorganized, so chaotic, so haphazard be so damn effective? But in the end, none of his personality quirks mattered since Tony always managed to get the job done. If it hadn't been for such a capable agent, Gibbs doesn't think he'd have ever retired.

Crossing his arms, he pushes a breath through his teeth.

_If I were still here, maybe my agents would've been abducted. _

None of this is helping to bring Tim and Tony home, but he can't help himself.

When he scrubs his hands over his face, someone clears their throat.

Gibbs turns to find an older man at the edge of the bullpen. With his wide set eyes and strong jaw, the man's features are remarkably familiar. As he straightens the lapel of his impeccable suit, the visitor's badge reflects the overhead light.

"Can I help you?" Gibbs asks.

"I certainly hope so. Agent Gibbs, am I correct?"

Gibbs shakes the man's proffered hand. "Yeah, and you are?"

"Anthony D. DiNozzo, - " his lips pull into a tight smile " – Senior. Have you seen my son?"

"It must be pretty important for you to stop by in the middle of the night."

Shifting his weight, Senior stares at the floor. "I've been trying to reach Junior for several weeks now, but he hasn't returned any of my calls. I just got into town a few hours ago and since he wasn't home, I figured he'd be here." Senior shoots Gibbs another grin. "My boy never learned to enjoy the finer things in life. He lives to work, not work to live. But look who I'm talking to, you're the one with the stronger work ethic than his." When Gibbs doesn't reply, Senior hastily adds: "Not that it's a bad thing. Someone has to arrest criminals. But have you seen Junior? It's really important that I speak with him. Now."

"DiNozzo and one of his co-workers were abducted this morning."

The color drains from Senior's cheeks as his knees begin to buckle. Before he goes down, Gibbs grabs his arm and leads him to Ziva's desk chair. Once he's seated, Senior buries his face in his hands.

"I knew this was going to happen."

"You knew he was going to be abducted?"

"In a way." Senior meets Gibbs' intense glare and swallows hard. "I'm in the middle of a few business deals that aren't going quite as planned. One of the men that I'm working with might have threatened my family recently. I tried to reach Junior to warn him, but you know how he is sometimes. He ignores me unless we have something to talk about."

"I think someone coming after him would be a great topic."

"Well, I told him to call me because it was important. I thought he'd give his own father the time of day but – " Senior laughs humorlessly " – I guess not."

"DiNozzo probably had a reason."

"Junior's stubborn. He gets that from his mother."

Gibbs lets out a labored sigh. "So why would someone go after DiNozzo?"

"I was brokering a building complex of luxury high-rises in New York City. My client already gave me his down payment to set him up with a seller, but I'm still searching for the ideal person. He started to get a little antsy when I didn't deliver right away and he threatened my son."

"How long have you had the money?"

"It hasn't been very long. If my client had been more patient, I could've – "

"How long?"

Senior's gaze drops to his knees. "Three years."

Gibbs remains silent for a long beat. "How much are you in for?"

"A little over a million, but my client wants it returned with interest." Senior plays with the cuff of his suit coat. "I don't have it anymore. I tried to warn Junior so he could run, but he never called me back…"

With a low exhale, Gibbs leans against the desk. "Who's your client?"

Pursing his lips, Senior yanks a thread free. "Simon Carmichael, up and coming real estate mogul in the Northeast. He's not the kind of guy you want to cross."

Gibbs narrows his eyes at Senior. "But you did."

"Look Agent Gibbs, I don't expect you to understand. I do what I need to get by. I know that doesn't make me father of the year." Senior shakes his head at a fleeting thought. "Look, Junior and I have our differences, but I still try to reach out. I send a card on his birthday and Christmas. Whenever I'm in town I call to spend time with him, but he's always working. I'm trying not to give up and move on, but – " he lets out a broken sigh " - he isn't making it easy on me. I really thought he'd answer this time."

Not bothering to reply, Gibbs starts out of the bullpen.

"Where are you going?" Senior calls.

"Now that we know who has them, we'll find them."

When he senses that Senior isn't following him, Gibbs stops suddenly. Senior is riveted at the edge of the bullpen, his gaze focused on Tony's desk. Shaking his head, Gibbs moves back to his side. A hard tap on Senior's shoulder pulls him from his thoughts.

"Are you okay?" Gibbs asks.

"My son, the federal agent. That's one that I never would've guessed." Senior smiles. "Did he become the kind of man that would make me proud, Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs nods. "I think so."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he never disappointed me."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Author's Note 2.0 :** _This story may be slightly AU for Senior's history. We know he's a con man based off what we've seen, but we don't know exactly how much of one he is. Hopefully, my interpretation doesn't seem too far-fetched based on canon. If it is, I apologize. _


End file.
